


a cage, a bone, an oven, a moment seized, discovered treasure, the journey home

by JoCarthage



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alex Manes is an unreliable narrator for his own life, Anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 11:08:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21117791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoCarthage/pseuds/JoCarthage
Summary: Alex had tried, right? He'd tried. He'd tried to call him (no answer), go by his trailer (moved, grooves in the filled-in by the flowing acres of dust, the faint smell of chemicals and smoke in the air), catch him at the Pony (Maria hadn't seen him).Title from: http://sporkpress.com/5_1/pieces/Siken.html





	a cage, a bone, an oven, a moment seized, discovered treasure, the journey home

He couldn't _breathe._

Alex had tried, right? He'd tried. He'd tried to call him (no answer), go by his trailer (moved, grooves in the filled-in by the flowing acres of dust, the faint smell of chemicals and smoke in the air), catch him at the Pony (Maria hadn't seen him).

So here he was, shuffling weight from foot to prosthetic and back again on Max Evan's porch. It was a nice ranch house, a rambler, open in the middle just the right amount crowded with books from what he could see through the side window. Max's work truck was out front and it was a Saturday at Noon; he had no reason to be anywhere else, not with Liz at a conference in Denver.

He heard booted footsteps and he rehearsed what he was going to say: _"Michael's gone, isn't he?"_

No, no, _no_.

_"Hey, how's it going? (Like I fucking care you brother-abandoning asshat)."_

Satisfying, but no.

_"I'm hoping you're in contact with Michael. I've been trying to get ahold of him, not to bother him, just to let him know -- something personal. I don't know where he went or why he didn't tell me. It's not like the time he went to Tennessee for 6 months, he told me where he was -- I know he didn't tell you, and I'm sorry I couldn't tell you either, but you see why I am concerned? Yes? You see, I love him. And I don't act like it; I have no idea how to act like it. I have no idea how to love but I am doing my best, dammit. I am doing my fucking best, Max, don't look at me -- can you just please tell Michael you saw me? Unless he hates me? Love, it can curdle like that sometimes. It can fall apart, it can shatter and cut so many people -- I know you know it. I just -- I thought I would feel it, you know? The second, the moment, the very instant he stopped loving me. Like an umbilical chord to my handed-over heart being cut, like my airway being blocked. I thought I'd always know, you know, where he was, what he was doing, what he was feeling, what he felt about me. But you know, I have no idea. I have no living idea what he wants or needs or hopes for or expects from me and the thing is, finally, fucking finally, after a decade I'm ready -- I'm ready to ask. So can you ask him what I can do for him? Not with or to him, and sorry I didn't mean to make you think of that or anything about us, I know I would never want to think of my brothers like that, loving and being loved, it must be terrible to think of someone holding him like you like being held, must be terrible knowing he has someone who would give everything for him and who gives not two shits about you -- so if you're in contact with him, will you just -- ask him to text me?"_

All these words and thoughts rushed faster than thinking in between hearing boots at the end of the hallway and hearing a rough hand on the door.

The door flung open and Alex saw curls -- he'd been glaring up at where Max's eyes would be, eyes pushing against his skull, so full of anger and fury and hurt and then there were curls, soft, tousled curls, loved curls, loved scalp, loved forehead, loved widening eyes, loved wrinkling nose, loved dropping mouth, loved stubbled chin, loved bobbling throat.

"Fuck." Alex rasped and Michael shut his mouth.

"I didn't think you knew I was here."

Alex felt the words slap him on the temple, driving in -- how _dare_ he come here, disturb Michael when he clearly didn't want help, clearly didn't want to talk, clearly didn't want _him_ \--

  
"I don't --" Michael gulped, stepping out onto the porch, Alex taking a big step back, trying to make-up for this invasion, this intrusion, this inappropriate presence by now respecting the hell out of Michael's personal space boundaries. There was a flash of hurt in his eyes when he caught the moment, quickly covered, entirely coveted by Alex.

His newly-healed hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing hard, and Alex remembered doing that for him, working the tension out of his sun-stiffened muscles, working from the base of his skull down the long tendons and bones in the back, digging his thumbs in and knowing, never doubting, never hinting, that his touch was anything but the most welcome thing available in the shady sunlight of that trailer-bound afternoon.

It felt nothing like that now. He was an interloper, an overstepper, an abuser of privileges --

"We're really not good at words today are we?" Michael said and Alex -- stopped. He stopped. Just for a moment. He took in Michael's clothes -- sleeping clothes, soft and touchable, and way too big, Max's for sure. The lack of a truck in the driveway or a trailer. And this -- the faint smell of smoke.

"Did something happen?" Alex gasped out.

Michael huffed a laugh, pushing himself back on his heels, shifting his weight to the side, disbelief working across his face: "Yeah, Alex. My trailer burned down three days ago. Took my truck out with it. I was out with Max and Isobel and -- I think it was the hotplate? Or the chemicals? Or the fucking elderly engine or all the oil from the yard or lightning or -- I don't really know. But it's gone. All my stuff. My phone. Anything not in the bunker; all gone. I've been crashing here while I figure out what to do. I lost all my tools, so I can't get handyman work --"

And Alex was crashing into him, his body entirely welcome, Michael's arms wrapping around him, his foot between his feet, this stability, his third leg, his body, his _person_.

"Hey, hey," he said, voice low and quiet as his hands found their appointed places on Alex's back, "I was really wrapped up, I didn't think to call you, I thought you were out of town for a few more days."

"It's been a _week_," Alex told his shoulder-blade resentfully. "A _week,_ Michael."

Michael rubbed the side of his head against Alex's: "I honestly lost track of time, love. I'm sorry."

And Alex -- reoriented to the world. It had been a week. He'd heard from Michael last Saturday, they'd been planning to see each other at the Wild Pony. He'd had a plan and --

"Hey," Michael said, tipping his hand against Alex's cheek: "Did you take your anxiety meds, by any chance, the past few days?"  


Alex's breath hitched in his chest and he felt _so stupid_, he was _inflicting_ himself on Michael, improperly medicated, improperly _human_ _ \--_

"Hey, can you drive us to your place so I can get something to eat that isn't so fucking healthy? Max is a total fucking neat-freak about his insides and his outsides," Michael pattered, gently shooing Alex down the steps and to the gravel driveway. His voice got lower, softer, "and maybe we can see how those untouched pills are doing in their lonely orange cave, huh?"

They were half an hour into the drive to Alex's place with Michael driving, Alex trying to breathe through what he could now see from a little bit of perspective was a three day long panic attack, when he let himself ask: "Why didn't you come to me?"

And Michael ducked his head, still keeping his eyes on the road.

He tapped himself on the side of the head: "You're not the only one who's got -- well. I just -- I don't want to not be together. It was such a big deal, us trying something together, and I have a safety net now, I've repaired it enough, it wasn't a big deal for Max to take me in for a few days while I worked stuff out, and I guess," his voice was a near-mumble: "I guess I don't like being less than perfect around you."

Alex didn't say: _"Yeah you were so perfect when you were drying out on my couch, railing and ranting and trying to seduce me into going to get you acetone. Or the time you fell off the wagon because Max was talking about moving to Denver. Or the time Isobel was late for dinner and you were nearly levitating with fear and then screamed at her for absolutely nothing --"_

Because he could now hear -- how was he so _stupid_ as to miss it before -- that was his Radio Station KFKD. His shitty inner voice. His father. His worst, most self-rotting parts. The things that wanted to kill him from the inside and had no pity for him, no empathy for him, 

But he did say: "I love you for exactly how you are, Guerin. You are perfect how you are. And you are perfect, to me,"

Michael made a sound like he didn't believe him. Like he didn't have a space inside his head -- and _of course_ he didn't, he'd just lost his _home_ and all his _stuff_ how could Alex be so _self-centered _\--

"I was thinking of learning the guitar again," Michael said and sometimes, in moments like this, Alex wondered if he might have a little bit of Isobel's mind-reading. He always seemed to know when Radio Station KFKD was blaring inside Alex's head and interrupt with tactical precision because now all Alex could think of was his long, newly-healed fingers wrapped around the glowing wood of an acoustic guitar. He felt his shoulders uncurl a little, his stomach untwist, his thighs spread a little bit more on the slightly crunchy seats -- what _had _Maria been snacking on the last time he'd driven her to a supplier meeting in Albuquerque?

"What song do you want to learn first?" And it was like drinking a hot tea, feeling it slide into his belly, warm him inside and out, letting his body float and flow with it, seeing Michael smile sidelong at him.

"Oh, I was thinking 'Roaring Twenties' or 'Dancing's Not a Crime' or --"

Alex bit his tongue, hiding his smile before breaking into full-on laughed. "But you _hate_ Panic -- " he started and Michael's hand went down to his thigh, a touch they hadn't really decided they were ok with it, but oh, Alex was _more_ than ok with it, his mind and body flipping so fast from panic to turned on his head spun from the sudden redirection of bloodflow. 

Then Michael slipped his hand back, gripping the wheel tightly, pinky still held flat against the fake leather of the wheel: "Sorry," he said and Alex, he didn't spiral for a second, he just --

"It's ok, I -- like I said. I wanted to tell you, that morning, after everything went to shit with Max. I'm ready to wait for us. You waited for me, and -- I know you're done with Maria --" Michael huffed, that was a serious understatement. Maria had practically catapulted herself into an alternate dimension at the first mention Max had made of how long Michael and Alex had been together, how much it had meant to the two of them.

And since then it had been -- slow. Friendly.

They got food at the Pony and worked on non-alien projects like helping fix things at the Pony or around Crashdown, sometimes getting dragooned into working on Isobel's events or tutoring kids Max was trying to keep from taking-up Michael's now-vacant seat in the drunk tank. They took the time to just -- be. With each other. And Alex took his anxiety meds and Michael flirted with beer and women and men and didn't go all the way with any of them. And they were -- waiting? Learning healthy touch and how to talk and be kind, building-up a network, and most of the time, Alex remembered it, but it was -- it was like trying to breathe during a marathon through a straw; doable and hard and light-headed-making. And it was enough, more than enough, after a lifetime of not breathing, to finally get enough to _live_.

"I can't hate anything you love, Alex. And I love you."

And he was quiet, letting that settle.

Alex leaned over, head between his knees, a tide of adrenaline running through his body for no reason.

"Nearly there, love," Michael said, keeping his hands steady on the wheel, keeping the speed even, the turns comfortable.

"Kay," Alex said.

Michael put his hand on the long, shuddering curve of his back, and Alex flinched and tried to forgive himself for it and Michael started away and then settled back on him again.

"3 more minutes, Alex. Breathe with me, ok?"

He make obnoxious breathing sounds until Alex did the same, fingers flexing against the long, hard line of his spine and Alex could -- he could _breathe_. 

He could breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> With credit to Anne Lamott for Radio Station KFKD: https://www.rowdykittens.com/blog/2011/01/radio-station-kfkd


End file.
